


the little things

by MarzgaPerez



Series: Shameless S11 Fill-Ins and Head Canons [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Co-workers, Fluff, Husbands, M/M, Pre S11x8, Sentimental, in sickness and in health, s11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 16:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30091617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarzgaPerez/pseuds/MarzgaPerez
Summary: After viewing the dynamics of S11x6 & S11x8 and the ways Ian and Mickey take care of each other, this popped into my head.Set before S11x8 and doesn’t involve Terry whatsoever. But Carl makes an appearance.Fluffy.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Shameless S11 Fill-Ins and Head Canons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216694
Comments: 8
Kudos: 172





	the little things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azuresky18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azuresky18/gifts).



Mickey blew out a puff of air and turned up the volume on the sound system in the rig. He glanced at the passenger seat that was currently unoccupied and wondered if he should turn around and go back home to keep his husband company. Poor bastard was holed up in their bed with a fever and chills, side effects from his COVID vaccine. Ian had taken one for the team, getting his vaccine before everyone else to assuage their fears around whether they’d grow extra appendages. 

Nothing like that had happened so far, but the side effects weren’t pleasant, and Ian hadn’t slept well during the night. _He'll be okay though,_ Mickey told himself and gripped the steering wheel tighter, willing himself to keep going. It was Monday, one of their busier days since most dispensaries needed to restock after weekend traffic. They couldn’t _both_ afford to take a sick day. 

Earlier that morning, Mickey had pressed the back of his hand against Ian’s forehead and clicked his tongue with worry—dude was burning up.

“Yo, man. Wake up,” he said, shaking Ian’s shoulder. “Medicine time.”

Ian blinked, opening his eyes slowly and managing a weak smile. “Thanks, Mick.”

The redhead had gotten as far as sitting up in the bed, swallowing his pills with the last of his Gatorade, and declaring that he just needed a minute to get ready for their day. Right after, he’d collapsed back onto his pillow and burrowed down into the covers. “Just...wait for me downstairs...don’t want you out there...alone,” he’d mumbled.

Mickey looked down at his pitiful husband, knowing Ian hated to admit it when he was sick. But from the looks of things, his tired body had won out this time. Mickey was pretty certain he’d be flying solo on their runs.

After heading downstairs, Mickey grabbed a donut, fixed a cup of coffee, and took his usual spot at the kitchen table. Funny, he knew exactly where Ian was at the moment, but he still caught himself looking over towards the stairs, expecting the sound of giant boots pounding into each of the rickety steps as he descended them. And instead of Ian sitting across from him, staring back at him menacingly, and nudging his calf under the table, it was Carl who was in his spot, shoveling cereal into his mouth.

“Ian still not feeling well?” Carl asked, wiping the corner of his mouth with his uniform sleeve.

“Nah, man. Matter of fact, was wondering if you could check on him in a few hours? I got a shitload of deliveries and pick-ups on the other side of town, or I’d do it,” Mickey explained.

“Yeah. I could probably make it back over here around lunchtime. Anything he needs?”

“Just make sure he’s alright. Fucker won’t admit it when he’s hurtin’. The on-call nurse said he needs to stay hydrated.”

“No problem, Mick.”

“Thanks. Owe you one.”

Mickey finished his breakfast and poured some cereal for Franny before going back upstairs with two Gatorades. He pushed open the accordion door to their room as quietly as possible and left the bottles on the nightstand, taking one last look at his sleeping husband and then making a mad dash down the stairs and out the front door before he could change his mind.

Now it was close to 10:30am. Mickey was fumbling with an address on his GPS and really starting to miss his co-pilot and all of his inane stream of consciousness chatter. Usually, Ian would get so caught up in whatever story or anecdote he was sharing, they’d miss a turn and have to double back. Mickey would accuse Ian of being a shitty navigator and tell him they were switching at the next stop. Most of the time, Ian would laugh it off.

Last week, he’d responded with some philosophical bullshit about how wrong turns can sometimes lead you in the right direction. Mickey had asked Ian if he’d gotten that particular gem from a fortune cookie, but yeah, they both knew there was some truth to it. Case in point, nearly every damn step of their relationship.

Oh, and speaking of cookies, Mickey was getting hungry for his mid-morning snack, which he suddenly realized was back at the house because Ian hadn’t been downstairs to pack one and bring it along. That would mean an earlier lunch, and Mickey was hating the fact that he would be eating by himself. Mondays they stopped at a tamale stand. Ian would order for them and make casual chitchat in Spanish with Ernesto and Sandra, the owners.

Mickey completed a few more drop-offs, where he fielded questions of “where’s your other half?” and exchanged bags of pot for sweaty wads of cash—which Ian would usually be thumbing through until Mickey told him to stop fucking around and put the money in the safe because remember what happened to Kev and his money roll? 

Stomach growling, Mickey made his way over to the tamale stand. He found a parking spot across the street and texted Carl for a status update.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _How’s Ian?_

A long-ass minute later, his brother-in-law replied.

 **_Carl:_ ** _I’m almost home. On patrol by myself since I’m partnerless. Will text soon._

 **_Mickey:_ ** _K._

 _If he’s not doing any better, I’ll go home,_ Mickey decided, pocketing his phone and securing the ambulance before crossing the street. _I’ll eat while I’m driving so I can get finished faster. And I’ll get a few tamales for Ian in case he’s hungry later._

Mickey sprinted over to the tamale stand, which had a shorter line than usual since it wasn’t noon yet. When it was his turn, he noticed Ernesto and Sandra standing behind the cart, eyebrows raised, giving him the strangest look. 

He went ahead with his order. “Uh, hi. _Yo_ , uh, _quiero, tres tamales de pollo y tres de cerdo. Para llevar_.” <I’d like three chicken tamales and two pork. To go.>

Ernesto chuckled and nudged his wife. “ _Mire quien habla español_?”

Sandra nodded encouragingly and smiled at Mickey.

“Yeah, I speak Spanish,” he muttered in reply. It was a little known fact. When necessary, Mickey would bite the bullet and utilize the Spanish he’d picked up in Mexico, which was notably better than Ian’s, but his preference was to avoid any and all small talk.

Ian had already blabbed a shit-ton about the fact that Mickey was his husband, and they worked security, and oh, did Ernesto and Sandra have any kids, which they did, two in high school, and yeah, did their kids help make the tamales, and no, they did not, they were lazy as fuck (Mickey’s interpretation of their gestures).

“ _Y tu esposo_?” Sandra asked, a curious twitch in the curve of her mouth. <And your husband?>

“ _Enfermo_.” <Sick>

“ _Ay, pobrecito. Y no lo estás cuidando_?” <Poor thing. And you’re not taking care of him?>

“ _Trabajo_ ,” shrugged Mickey. <Work.>

Someone had to keep bringing in the dough. 

“ _Claro_ ,” Ernersto nodded, handing Mickey two styrofoam containers. “ _Dígale que le mandamos saludos y que se recupera muy pronto_.” <Of course. Tell him that we send our regards and hope he feels better soon.>

“ _Gracias. Hasta luego_.” <Thanks. See you later.>

Mickey got back to the rig and checked his phone—no word from Carl yet. Instead of texting him, he called.

Carl answered on the second ring. “Was just about to text you.”

“Uh-huh. How’s he doing?” Mickey asked, tugging nervously on his bottom lip.

“Better. Fever’s down. He’s watching TV and eating cereal. You wanna talk to him?”

“Fuck yeah. Put him on.”

“Hey, Mick,” said a familiar voice, more weary than usual. “Where are you?”

“Near the tamale place. Got you a few for later. ”

“Thanks. I’m feeling better now. Come get me so I can finish up the day with you.”

“Hell no!” replied Mickey, inwardly relieved to hear that Ian was on the mend. “Too far. Drink more fluids, and get some rest. Need you back in the saddle tomorrow.”

“C’mon! I’m fine.”

“Whatever. For all we know, you’re gonna be spewing virus on me.”

“That’s not how the vaccine works.”

“You always believe that bullshit from, uh, you know, what are they called?”

“Scientists?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, them. Lyin’ motherfuckers.”

“You are getting this damn vaccine!”

“Hmmm. I’ll take your wishes under advisement.” Mickey really liked busting his husband’s balls, especially since he knew how easy it was to get a rise out of him. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way home. Lemme know if you need anything.”

“Can you get me some more Gatorade? Usual flavor.”

“Anything for you, sport. Later.”

“Thanks, Mick. Bye.”

^^^^^^^^^^

Now Mickey could relax a little more. He knew he’d probably overreacted with all of his worrying, but it wasn’t often that Ian didn’t feel well. No matter the cause, it would always be difficult to see him in any sort of state reminiscent of that time, years ago, when neither Mickey nor Ian’s siblings could coax him out of bed for days due to his depressive state. Mickey’s rational side knew the two instances were completely unrelated, but anything that ever rendered his tough-as-nails husband (and now with extra padding) unable to get out of bed was concerning to him.

He finished up the afternoon pick-ups and deposits, which were way more boring without his sidekick. Ian always made the post-lunch workday more entertaining by singing along to whatever shit came on the radio and showcasing his signature dance moves. Hell, even when the dude would eventually tire and doze off for a few minutes, it was kind of fucking adorable the way he would jolt awake and sneak a glance over at Mickey to see if he’d give him any shit about sleeping on the job.

As Mickey was heading toward the Alibi, his final stop, he noticed a car that he’d spotted a few stops back—a maroon Cadillac Seville that looked like something straight out of the 1970s. _Fuck. I’m being followed. Not this shit again. I need to lose his ass._

Try as he might, Mickey could not shake the car, and by the time he got to the Alibi, the more he was itching to stop in the middle of the street and have it out with this motherfucker. But he could already hear Ian’s voice in his head. _Be_ _careful. We’re on parole._

Mickey parked in the alley behind the bar, readied his gun, and climbed into the back of the rig. Maybe the fucker had moved on to some other mark, but if not, Mickey was ready to bust through the doors and surprise the piece of shit who’d decided to fuck with him, right when he was finishing up for the day and on his way to see his husband. He peered out of the back window and noticed that the suspicious car was now parked across the street. 

Mickey returned his gun to its holster and opened up the back of the rig. He jumped out and crossed the street. Thank fuck he got a good look at who had been behind the wheel, because otherwise, his dumbass brother-in-law might have gotten shot right then and there. _Fucking Carl._

By the power of Grayskull and maybe because Carl was in his cop getup, Mickey managed not to lunge at the dumbass. He did, however, let him have it. “The fuck, Carl?! Why were you following me? I was about to shoot your ass! Is Ian okay?”

“Yeah, yeah! Ian’s fine. He drank all of his—wait! You saw me?!” Carl asked, planted behind his half-opened car door as though it was shielding him from the irate Milkovich.

“Kinda hard to miss,” Mickey scoffed, kicking the wheel of the car. “Why the fuck are you driving this old clunker?”

“It’s an undercover car. Had to take what they gave me.”

“Whoa! Whoa! Hold up! You tryin’ to bust me for something?”

“No!” Carl shouted. “Ian was worried about you being by yourself, so he asked me to follow you.” The kid hung his head in his hands and mumbled, “Why do I fail at everything?” 

Lucky for him, Mickey’s rage was beginning to subside, and he felt for the guy, knowing he wasn’t exactly killing it in his new job. “I mean, I didn’t notice you right away.”

“Yeah?” Carl asked after a few seconds, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Mickey shrugged. He was telling the truth. Clearly, he hadn’t been paying much attention, another reason why he needed his hawkeye husband back on the job as soon as possible. “It’s Ian’s fault for wasting your time. Get back to doing your real job. I’m gonna finish up here, stop by the store, and head home.”

“Okay.”

“And Carl, man, thanks for having my back today.”

“No problem, Mick.”

The kid was no longer sulking as he got behind the wheel. Mickey figured that Carl was the closest thing he’d ever had to a little brother. Liam, too. Something about that epiphany made him grin like an idiot all the way back home.

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey found his husband upstairs, looking a thousand times better than he had that morning, whistling some random tune, and putting their laundry away.

“Fully recovered, huh?” Mickey asked, holding up a six pack of Gatorade, wishing it was a six pack of beer.

He was caught off guard when Ian tackled him, causing them both to fall back on the bed. The bottles slipped out of his hand and made a clunking noise on the floor, which unfortunately was not as loud as what Ian would later describe as Mickey “yelping.” The brunet composed himself quickly, only to be met with a multitude of soft pecks all over his cheeks and whispers of “glad you’re home” and “I missed you” and “thanks for taking care of everything.”

Mickey decided not to give Ian any grief for sending Carl to tail him. It hadn’t been necessary, but it was a nice gesture.

And it was nice to be able to do things for each other, even little things, shit they took for granted. Sure, sometimes Mickey wanted some goddamn peace and quiet when they were on the rig together all damn day, but fuck, today had been extra dull without his chatterbox of a husband to keep him entertained. Worst of all, there had been no one to lean over and massage the back of his neck after a full day of driving all around the mean streets of Chicago.

This working together thing reminded Mickey of the first legit job he ever had, the one Ian got him doing security at the Kash and Grab. The work was easy, the banging was frequent, and as long as they kept Linda’s pregnant ass fed, she didn’t give them too much shit about how they spent the rest of the their time—talking shit, getting to know each other, and just being in close proximity without having to worry about anyone suspecting that within the walls of that dumpy store, well, something was happening, a foundation was forming, that Mickey never could have imagined in a million years. And now it was right in front of him. 

“What?” asked Ian, who must have noticed Mickey staring off into space, his mind somewhere else completely.

“Nothing. Just missed you.”

Mickey decided not to say anything else for the moment. He just wanted to be. 

He wanted to be this man who Ian had somehow seen, underneath his layers of grime and bravado and fear, back when they were kids. And yeah, they were by no means perfect or without stupid fucking drama, but today, well, and for the days to come, they could just be them. _Together_.

**Author's Note:**

> Sending good vibes to my best Gallavich pal. ☺️


End file.
